Paint the town red 2

We went to the opening of the Fort Gallery show tonight. Each artist was tasked with bringing food for the opening. We had talked about bringing finger-food with red on or in it. I wasn’t successful in doing this. Instead I cooked up some pecan-meringue cookies, which I took along with a bottle of red wine, crackers and some Boursin cheese.

Mrs. Stepford had a great idea of sandwiching beet slices with cream cheese – like beet Oreos. I bet it would taste wonderful, especially if it were herb flavored cream cheese, but I couldn’t bring myself to make them. I thought about accidently getting a drip of beet juice on my clothing (or someone else doing it) and that ended that idea. I thought about my marashino baking powder biscuits, but they are only good warm – straight from the oven. I didn’t think I could deliver them piping hot, so that was out. And smoked salmon as a biscuit topper? Maybe, but the salmon runs have been poor in this part of the country, so that the cost of decent Sockeye cold-smoked salmon is prohibitive.

Unfortunately, someone brought sushi and I liked it so much I went back several times. I’d already had dinner!

I invited some friends to come with me – Mrs. Stepford, next door; Carol, Beverly and Dorothy. Just as we were leaving my house, Dorothy noticed that I had a flat tire developing. Not a good thing! I could imagine us breaking down with a flat, miles away from anywhere on a country lane in the pitch black with three of us shivering until the BCAA came to help us out. We went in Dorothy’s car instead.

We arrived without mishap exactly at seven p.m., but the lights were all out in the gallery. “Oh no!” I muttered to myself. I haven’t got the wrong date again, or the wrong time. ” I was sure this time, but it’s perfectly awful when I do that.

We sat in the car for five minutes, then we saw a car park beside the gallery and their lights go out. Inside the gallery, a light switched on. A slender figure silhouetted in black moved forward in the gallery and then lights switched on. We followed in quickly.

It was already past the witching hour, and there was work to be done – table cloths to be set out, a food table to be set up, and a bar with glasses on the gallery manager’s desk. I was asked to uncork the wine and pour some. By seven twenty the other artists had arrived.

It took another twenty minutes for the noise level to rise and the conversations to flow, aided by the libations.

It was a light crowd. Maybe forty people turned up, max. I brought four people with me and two more of my guests more showed up later. There are sixteen artists, I think, so that only leaves another seventeen visitors. So if the number of invitees was disappointing, the evening was not.
It gave me a good opportunity to chat with a some of the other artists whom I don’t know too well yet. I think that is going to be the big bonus of having joined the collective. And I got explore the Open Studio area in the adjoining store front, where classes or private tutoring happens.

I was rather surprised to find it was only ten o’clock when we got back to my house. Mrs. Stepford was eager to get out of her Friday-go-to-openings clothes, and Dorothy had had a long week, working. Both disappeared into the night and here I am home-alone again. The other two had come in a separate car as they live in a different community ten miles from here. The evening was over.

During the evening, one of the artists mentioned post-partum exhibition syndrome. It’s true. There is a let down once The Opening is done. In the days that come, I hope that some of our artists’ group make some sales. It’s not the only reason why we paint, but when something sells, there is a thrill of validation that comes. An adrenaline feeling. Someone has felt deeply enough about one’s work that they have been willing to actually pay for it.

Now I’m ready to turn in. I’ll be glad, myself, to get out of my exhibition-duds. Tomorrow I”m going to have to look after that tire that is losing air.